


take me to the lakes

by bea_meupscotty



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, but more like, i can't believe i wrote this much Pain, there's a hurt version and a comfort version
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:54:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28160502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bea_meupscotty/pseuds/bea_meupscotty
Summary: Akira spends Valentine's Day with Akechi (twice).
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira
Comments: 1
Kudos: 38





	take me to the lakes

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on take 5 of writing author's notes, so all I'll say is that I had a lot of feelings about writing this and I continue to have a lot of feelings. The title of this is from Taylor Swift's the lakes, because, in case you haven't seen my other Akeshu work I'm writing (I swear I'm writing), folklore just is an Akeshu album, full stop.

“… I saw the light on in here last night. Did you think you’d just try and trick this romantically impaired fool?” 

“I was worried so I came by to check on you last night and saw the light on…”

“I came to say hello yesterday, but when I looked—”

Akira’s Valentine’s Day had taken a turn for the worse,

*

_when it had started out so surprisingly well._

He’d looked down at the flood of messages on his phone and grimaced. He hadn’t meant to get himself in this situation, it was just that—Ann’s assertive personality, Makoto’s sharp reasoning and intelligence, Takemi’s snark, Haru’s elegance, Sumire’s unbridled power in the Metaverse. They all had something individually that—individually, that—oh, who was he kidding? He scrolled past the messages until he found a chat further down, and texted the person that, when he wasn’t lying to himself, he wanted to spend Valentine’s evening in Leblanc with. After everything that had happened, everything that lay between them, how could it be anyone else?

When the bell over the door had announced the entry of his guest, Akira had been proud of what he’d managed. The TV in the corner turned off for once, a soft jazz record he’d dug up in a store in Kichijoji playing, half of the lights off so that it seemed like the lighting was dimmed, two plates of curry and two cups of coffee at the bar, in their usual spots. 

“Are you—of all the sentimental bullshit,” Akechi said from the doorway, but when Akira glanced at him the expression on his face was softened by surprise. 

“Welcome home,” Akira said, gesturing at the spot at the bar. 

“I—you said this was important.” Akechi was trying to sound angry, but the desperate confusion was slipping through his mask. 

“This is important,” Akira replied mildly. Stepping closer to where Akechi had barely moved from his spot by the door, he reached out tentatively for the soft red scarf wrapped around Akechi’s neck, gently unwrapping it and placing it on the bar. When Akechi stayed silent, a sharp stare darting around the cafe as if he’d see a hidden meaning in something, others lurking somewhere, some mysterious Metaverse threat, Akira put a hand on his shoulder, waiting patiently as Akechi instinctively flinched, tensed, and then—seeing that Akira’s hand stayed soft, gentle, waiting—relaxed. Akira deliberately gentled his voice as he continued, “Hey, I’m sorry I wasn’t… honest about why I asked you here. I thought you wouldn’t come if I was, and… and I really wanted you to.” 

Akechi hesitated for a moment, still looking around as if waiting for the trap to spring shut, but he started unbuttoning his heavy winter coat. “This is ridiculous, you know.” 

“I know.” 

“I hate you.” Akechi had folded his coat and put it on the seat next to him, and was left in a soft woolen sweater that reminded Akira inevitably of the shade of coffee as Akechi took it. 

“That’s fine.” Akira said, starting to smile now as he took his place at the counter. 

“I didn’t bring any chocolate.” At another expectant glance from Akira, Akechi finally found his way into the seat left for him at the bar. 

“I don’t mind.” 

“I don’t even really like chocolate,” Akechi said, voice coming out slightly more strangled now, posture stiff with tension even as he hesitantly picked up his mug and took a sip. 

“Then I guess I shouldn’t tell you there’s chocolate in the curry.” Akira gave a little grin at the offended expression on Akechi’s face. 

“Are you—seriously—there’s chocolate in this curry?” 

And after that, it was enough. They weren’t talking about how uncomfortable or ridiculous Akechi found the situation, or dwelling on the nearly world-ending consequences of the events of the past few weeks, or trying to avoid the obvious elephants lurking in their past. They were just two boys talking about curry, Akira explaining some of Sojiro’s secret ingredients and the reason they worked. Conversation flowed the same way it had always done when it was just Akira and Akechi, both of them more open than they ever were with anyone else, than they ever intended to be. This time, no threats or secrets hanging over their heads. 

At the end of the night, nursing a second cup of (decaf) coffee, Akechi let the silence hang between them for a long moment before he finally voiced the question it seemed he’d been sitting on all night. 

“Why did you invite me, of all people, here on… tonight?” 

“I told you. I wanted to,” Akira said, glancing over at the tiny frown on Akechi’s face, ugly and treasured, proof that this was the real Akechi, no detective prince mask in sight. “Akechi, I’ve never made it a secret of the fact that I enjoy spending time with you, even when it clearly runs counter to every self-preservation instinct I have. It’s… it’s like you’ve said—there’s something about us. I feel like I can be more real with you than anyone else. And after Maruki’s—everything—I was done denying that.” The look on Akechi’s face could only be described as stricken, his hands clutching his coffee mug so tightly his knuckles turned white. “And… it doesn’t hurt that you’re very handsome.” 

Akira had the delight of noticing that the tips of Akechi’s ears were turning bright red before Akechi stood up. “It’s getting quite late, isn’t it?” 

“If you say so,” Akira said, reaching out for Akechi’s scarf, knowing not to push. 

“I need to get home. This was… surprisingly tolerable.” 

Akira just smiled, watching Akechi turn and look for his scarf and then leaning to loop it comfortably around Akechi’s neck, enjoying the renewed flush right where the tips of his ears peeked through his messy hair. “I’m glad.” 

“I’ll—goodbye,” Akechi left with a flustered farewell. Akira watched through the glass panes as, right outside the door, Akechi stopped, covered his face in his hands, and then took a few obvious deep breaths before walking away with the tiniest of smiles on his face. 

Now, laying on the floor after being thoroughly reminded of his negligence in gently letting down what seemed to be nearly every woman of his acquaintance—had he really done that? all of them? at least Futaba hadn’t been there, so he’d made the sibling-like nature of their relationship clear enough—he deliriously thought that at least it had been worth it. One almost perfect night with Akechi Goro. If it had been perfect, Akechi would have turned around right at the door and given him a quick, hesitant kiss, but—well, this was Akechi. 

He heard the bell over the door jangle, and groaned from his spot on the floor. “Sojiro?” 

“Sorry to disappoint. I came earlier, but waited to avoid the mob.” 

Akira shot to his feet, despite the screaming protest from his body, to see Akechi standing in the doorway, looking supremely amused. And holding a box of chocolates. 

“Did you bring me chocolate?” Akira’s heart was beating too heavy, too fast, and he couldn’t stop the grin from spreading on his face. He knew it was maybe ridiculous, to be so stupidly happy even though he’d just gotten his ass kicked by a group of angry women, and Akechi had clearly seen, but—Akechi had brought him chocolate. Akechi. Chocolate. 

“I—you really are stupid,” Akechi sighed, but Akira noticed that the tips of his ears were red again. “I can’t believe you called me last night when you could have—when any of them—when—you’re insufferably idiotic.” 

“Will you stay?” Akira tried, taking an unsteady step closer to Akechi that resulted in the sudden need to lean against a barstool. 

“No,” Akechi said firmly, eyeing Akira’s stumbling form with something between judgment and amusement. Akechi often looked at him like that, now, Akira thought with unreasonable fondness. “Just… eat your chocolate,” Akechi said, putting the chocolate on the end of the counter before he turned and walked out the door. 

A month later, Akira spent the week leading up to White Day preparing and making it perfect, with the help of a barely tolerant Sojiro and a surprisingly forgiving Ann (“I mean, he was what Maruki thought would make you happy, and it’s kind of romantic, actually. Oh, I just love a good love story.”). The day of, he took Akechi to the aquarium for a real date, not the mistaken date they’d been on the first time they came. 

“You wanted Ohya to think we were on a date even back then, didn’t you?” Akira teased, consciously letting the back of his hand brush against Akechi’s as they walked. 

“Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.” He was blushing again.

“She said she was checking out teen date spots, and you said we were here together because we were fairly close. C’mon, Akechi, for the detective prince you that was practically baring your teeth and saying back off, he’s mine.” 

“… Baring my teeth? Do you think I’m some sort of animal?”

“Well, you can be a bit… feral, when you’re being real you. It’s actually really hot.” 

“I should kill you.”

“You can try. Again.” 

It was the strangest date Akira had ever been on, and the best. When they made it to Sojiro’s restaurant recommendation, and the blinds covering the windows were raised to show the Tokyo skyline at night, even Akechi went quiet with awe. Akira took the chance to reach over and let his hand rest over Akechi’s for a few long moments before he brought out the flowers. Akechi had said that they were stupid and he hated them, but practically snarled when Akira tried to take them back. At the end of the night, strolling back to the station, roses still clutched possessively in the crook of Akechi’s arm, Akira had stopped them a few blocks away. 

“I’m probably pushing my luck—”

“Then don’t do it.” 

“—but can I kiss you?” 

The expression on Akechi’s face flickered through emotions too quickly for Akira to track, before he finally took a deep breath and said, “I—I suppose.” 

Akira leaned in, ignoring the scent of roses and the crinkling of the paper wrapped around them, and just pressed his lips gently against Akechi’s. It was a soft knock at a door, just the warmth of Akechi’s mouth against his, the soft slide of his Chapstick, the little intake of breath in his surprise, sweet and careful. Akira thought that maybe no one had ever been careful with Akechi before, and he wanted to be. After a long moment, he leaned back. Akechi was staring at him, all big eyes and softly parted lips, and then he blinked, just once, slowly like a cat. 

“You can do that again, in the future. If you’d like.” 

Akira was beaming. “I’d really like that. But for now, I want to make you a cup of coffee. LeBlanc?”

And they made their way home.

*

Akira’s Valentine’s Day had taken a turn for the worse, _which was astounding considering it had started so miserably._

He’d opened his phone to see it inundated with messages, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel… anything. Not excitement, or happiness at the idea of spending time with any of them, not even guilt about the sheer number of women texting him. He hadn’t really felt much since—well, it just hurt more to think about. He cleaned some of the dishes that needed doing, while Sojiro was out running an errand, and tried not to think about his plans. He knew that he should stop wallowing, should take one of them up on their offer, because surely being with any of them, with someone, would be better than sitting alone and remembering, but… with the added perspective of the events with Maruki, and elapsed time, he had gained the clarity to see what he was chasing. Or, rather, who he was chasing, in different people. 

But none of them were him. Not even all of them together were him, biting and wickedly clever, always interesting, always surprising, always looking at Akira with that stare that unwound him entirely, until he felt bare and raw. He looked at the row of messages again, and, agitated, tossed his phone across the room into the corner of one of the booths. It was bad enough trying to get through the days—he didn’t think he could sit across from someone all night, eating chocolate and laughing and pretending like nothing was wrong and everything was just _fine_ now without screaming, or laughing, or crying, or maybe all three at once. 

How Akechi would’ve liked to see that.

He asked Sojiro for the cafe anyway and put on an old jazz record he’d gotten in Kichijoji. When he’d bought it, he’d had Akechi in mind—imagined inviting him over, instead of to the jazz club for once, playing it for them both to listen to, maybe sitting on the little couch together upstairs, their legs brushing. Now, he was just alone, making two cups of coffee as he listened to the singer croon about _black coffee_ , _love’s a hand-me-down brew_. He set the second cup in front of Akechi’s spot at the bar, waiting for a gloved hand that would never grab it, for smirking lips that would never touch the mug again. 

It wasn’t much. It couldn’t make up for all the things Akira had never been able to say, not even when he’d felt them on the tip of his tongue right before closing at the jazz club, or walking back to the station with frost in the air and Akechi’s cheeks flushed pink with the cold. And one cup of coffee could never make up for his failures—for—the ship. But it was the least he could do, to give Akechi this one night, sitting alone at the bar and imagining what could have been. 

When the girls came by, accusing him of being with someone else because they’d seen, _what else_ , the second cup of coffee, the second seat open for someone, he didn’t even protest. It was true, wasn’t it? He had led them all on, then turned them down to spend Valentine’s Day evening with someone else. The fact that that someone hadn’t been there—couldn’t ever be there—didn’t make much difference. When Sojiro came back, he hadn’t moved from his spot on the floor, forehead resting against the cold floor. He hoped Sojiro wouldn’t make him get up. He was kind of hoping that if he just stayed here, he could maybe eventually melt into the floor. It wouldn’t hurt so much, being a floor, he thought—certainly not as much as being human hurt right now. 

He wasn’t so lucky. “Well, I guess I know how that went. Geez, kid, how many people do you know? I know you weren’t with Futaba.” 

Akira turned his head to the side, pressing his cheek against the floor and mumbling a response to Sojiro. “Wasn’t anyone here.” 

“What? Are you kidding? Why’d they think so?”

“Two cups of coffee. Two seats at the bar.” 

“What are you talking about?”

“Set a spot for him. Made his favorite brew. Didn’t matter that I knew he was—couldn’t come.” 

There was a long, heartbreaking moment of realization before he heard Sojiro above him saying, “Oh, kid.” Then there were strong arms that smelled distinctively of coffee grounds and cigarette smoke wrapping around his shoulders, tugging him up and heading for the stairs. When Sojiro had gotten him onto the futon, he looked back from the top of the stairs, mouth opening as if he had something to say. In the end, he just raised his glasses to swipe at his eyes with the back of his hand, and repeated, “Kid.” 

By White Day, he’d managed to gently make it clear to every single girl who’d shown up on Valentine’s Day that he wasn’t interested and was, in fact, quite emotionally unavailable. Only Ann and Sumire had caught on to the truth, Ann with a soft little “oh” and Sumire with a sad, knowing smile. He went to the aquarium, walked around remembering the time they’d come, what felt like a lifetime ago, as the detective prince and his friendly high school acquaintance. If he let himself stare into the tank, let the soft aquamarine light blur his vision and feel himself fall into the scene, he could imagine they were back then, that Ohya never interrupted them, that nothing had played out as it had and they could have had one perfect afternoon at the aquarium. When he was done, he skipped dinner and went over to Odaiba, holding the bouquet Hanasaki had handed him with a knowing grin and a wink. He’d added a few flowers of his own to the roses and orchids, sprigs of red camellia, spider lilies and white chrysanthemum. When she’d seen his additions, Hanasaki had faltered slightly, pressed a warm hand to his shoulder and then looked down, but not before he saw her blinking back tears. He left the bouquet there, on the cold pavement in front of a half-completed stadium. He knew it wasn’t where Akechi had really died, but Akira could at least give him a death and a resting place far away from Shido, the father who’d always scorned him but never deserved him. 

And then took the train out to Kichijoji. He didn’t go inside—the empty chair would be too much—but he could stand outside, close his eyes and imagine. There was still a chill in the air, the way it had been last autumn. From outside, he could hear the soft strains of the singer in the club tonight—not loud enough to hear the words, just the melody, familiar enough that it reminded him of a song that had been playing the last time he’d been here with Akechi. From outside, hands jammed in his pockets, fingers wrapped tightly around Akechi’s glove, he could imagine that it was autumn, and Akechi was on his way here. The way his pale face would flush from the cold, and his normally perfect hair would’ve been windswept from the bike ride over to Kichijoji. Over the sound of music and idle street chatter, he heard someone’s sharp bark of laughter. 

As long as he kept his eyes closed, it was Akechi’s.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sorry.
> 
> Take me to the lakes where all the poets went to die  
> I don't belong, and my beloved, neither do you  
> Those Windermere peaks look like a perfect place to cry  
> I'm setting off, but not without my muse
> 
> I want auroras and sad prose  
> I want to watch wisteria grow right over my bare feet  
> 'Cause I haven't moved in years  
> And I want you right here  
> A red rose grew up out of ice frozen ground  
> With no one around to tweet it  
> While I bathe in cliffside pools  
> With my calamitous love and insurmountable grief


End file.
